


To Drown In You

by vetiverite



Series: To Drown In You [1]
Category: Desperate Romantics, Siren (1996 Short Film)
Genre: Aidan Turner is Rossetti, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dean O'Gorman is Siren, M/M, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nudity, Seaside Tryst, Shameless Necking, Supernatural Elements, Water Spirit, merman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27063220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: Dante Gabriel Rossetti spends a month at the Dorset shore and makes a most unusual friend.
Relationships: Dante Gabriel Rossetti/Siren
Series: To Drown In You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111613
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14
Collections: GatheringFiki - Durin's Day 2020





	To Drown In You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugarsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarsu/gifts), [Suxr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suxr/gifts).



> A [GatheringFiKi Durin's Day 2020](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/632218330694074368/happy-durins-day-everyone-you-are-ok-to-post) gift Inspired by [THIS EVOCATIVE IMAGE](https://sugarsu.tumblr.com/post/628836305459134464) by [Sugarsu (Suxr)](https://tmblr.co/me7fnLaqxYDwy8eCM2L4aBA), to whom it is gratefully dedicated.
> 
> For the curious:  
> [The Durdle Door](http://www.southampton.ac.uk/~imw/durdle.htm)  
> [The Stair Hole](http://www.southampton.ac.uk/~imw/Stair-Hole-Lulworth.htm)  
> [Spring Cottage, Lulworth, Dorset](https://lulworth.com/stay/spring-cottage/)  
> [The Cerne Abbas Giant](https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/cerne-giant)  
> [The Uffington White Horse](https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/white-horse-hill)  
> [The Cogden Mermaid](https://books.google.com/books?id=f-n-CgAAQBAJ&pg=PA203&lpg=PA203&dq=cogden+mermaid&source=bl&ots=iS_idZ2AZd&sig=ACfU3U3r9jyIsMI9U0diQ3D76kDaoXyZ7A&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi9_rrF-rvsAhUckHIEHW0GD-84ChDoATARegQIBxAC#v=onepage&q=cogden%20mermaid&f=false)  
> [Dante Gabriel Rossetti](http://www.rossettiarchive.org/)  
> [Rossetti's _Ligeia Siren_](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ligeia_Siren_by_Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti_\(1873\).jpg)  
> ...and last but not least, [SIREN](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfgDOgTVBuQ) (1996) starring Dean O'Gorman and Craig Hall.

_For Love has made me weep  
_ _With sighs that do him wrong,  
_ _Since, when most strong my joy, he gave this woe.  
_ _I am broken, as a ship_  
_Perishing of the song,  
_ _Sweet, sweet and long, the song the sirens know._

—from “At the End of His Hope (Canzone VII)” by Jacopo da Lentino, transl. by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1861

He came to the coast on the heels of a hard winter, satchel and sketchbook under arm. They say salt air is a tonic. He needed more—a drowning man’s rescue at sea.

His quest began favorably enough. He spent the train journey to Southampton with his nose inelegantly pressed against the grimy window, drinking everything in. Surrey certainly wasn’t Yorkshire, but he’d read _Wuthering Heights_ over Christmas and desperately longed to be fierce Heathcliff, gazing at the moors. The North Downs would do for now.

At Blechynden Station, his high spirits suffered a pin-prick. A collision had closed the rails to Poole. He’d have to take a stagecoach— several, most likely, resulting in a journey of many more hours than expected. But not to fear! He had with him a pocket-sized volume of Longfellow given him by his sister Christina. And Mamma had packed him a delicious lunch, olive bread and enormous black grapes to be devoured with childlike gusto.

The coach was terribly crowded; elbows and knees battled for territory. He attempted to lose himself in _Evangeline_ but found that reading disquieted him; with every bump in the road, he lost his place and had to start again. Sleep would have been better, but the little girl sitting opposite whined and hammered her heels against the seat, determined to keep everyone awake with her.

By Bournemouth, his head and stomach felt like tops spinning in two different directions, unable to stop or slow down. He was lucky enough to secure a window seat, but to keep it, he needed to stay in it. That meant no disembarking at the stops. 

_No matter,_ he reassured himself. _There will be plenty of time to stretch my legs in Dorset._

So it was that upon arrival at Spring Cottage, Dante Gabriel Charles Rossetti became the first artist and poet ever to faint on its doorstep.

The landlady – a plump and placid woman named Mrs. Randall – had the coachman carry her guest upstairs to his room. Marking his waxen complexion and sweat-beaded brow, she placed a large basin on the floor nearest his head and discreetly took her leave.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned for another look. Candlelight revealed Mr. Rossetti clinging desperately to the mattress, piteous groans forcing their way from between his clenched teeth. 

_Drink this,_ said Mrs. Randall, placing a glass of ginger brandy on the bedside table. _It will calm you._

It worked a charm. Still fully-dressed but beyond caring, Mr. Rossetti sank into a fitful sleep that deepened and became dreamless after midnight.

Near the witching hour he woke up long enough to wriggle out of his clothes and into a nightshirt pulled from his satchel. He felt ghastly. Embarrassed. In a flare of self-pity, he vowed to stay shut up in this room all the coming day and night. Wasn’t that why he was here? _If you insist on moping all day, do it under some other roof,_ Mamma and Papà said. And so he would. He would!

But of course he didn’t, for as they say, salt air is a tonic.

The first morning dawned green and gold and full of hope, banishing all the previous day’s torments. _A month by the sea!_ Dante couldn’t wait to begin. Leaping out of bed, he flung his arms above his head and stretched until his back cracked, then splashed his face with cool water from the washstand bowl.

A look around the room gave him great satisfaction. Pleasant, cozy, and bright it was, with whitewashed walls and a cheerful red hearth rug and a chair cushion embroidered with clover blossoms. Outside, the sun smiled down from a cloudless cobalt sky. Inspired, Dante decided to wear his favorite waistcoat of deep blue brocade with a daffodil-yellow necktie. Gaudy, perhaps— but wasn’t he on holiday?

Downstairs, Mrs. Randall served him tea, toast, and a soft-boiled egg. _I thought perhaps you might prefer lighter fare after the rigors of your journey_ , she said.

_That’s best. If I want for more, I’ll look for an apple-seller when go a-roaming._ Dante shook out his napkin. _My mother sends her regards. She has told me of the long acquaintance you share._

_Yes. I also knew your Uncle John, God rest his soul._ Mrs. Randall sighed. _A sad loss. Please let your dear mother know that his writings claim pride of place upon my bookshelf. I have read them all._

_Including “Essay on the Source of Positive Pleasure”?_ Dante drawled, eyes slyly downcast. But Mrs. Randall, that admirable woman, volleyed his mischief right back at him.

_Cover to cover_ , she replied.

After breakfast, she produced a map of the environs and a weighty cloth bundle. _Here is your luncheon. Kindly return the napkin, but keep the map. Have you a pocket-watch?_

_I have not._

_Go by St. Andrew’s bells, then. They’re not especially close, but the sound does carry. I’ll bring over your dinner at six._

_Bring over?_ Dante stared in confusion.

_I live next door. You’ll only see me at meal-times, and I shall do the housework whilst you are out exploring._ She fished an iron key from her apron pocket and presented it to him. _There. Now the cottage is officially in your possession for the month. I hope your time here will be happy._

Dante felt sure of it.

_What shall I see first?_ he wondered aloud, peering at the map.

_I would start with the Durdle Door,_ replied Mrs. Randall. _It is the larger and more impressive of the two natural arches along our coast. If you wish to go quickly, turn left as you pass through the cottage gate. But if you prefer a more leisurely journey…_

Her tone of voice clearly implied that she, too, preferred it.

_…turn right._

_The ocean. The ocean. The ocean._

It took until the end of the lane for Dante to realize he’d been chanting in time with his footsteps.

_The ocean. The ocean. The ocean._

He could smell it, hear it, even feel the faint rumble of the surf through his boot soles. Soon enough he’d see it. Yet instead of turning left – which according to the map would take him straight there – he took Mrs. Randall’s advice, turning right and walking away, away, away.

It was well he did, for the neighborhood proved a treat for his jaded Londoner’s eyes. On either side of the pebbly footpath, little whitewashed cottages sprouted like button mushrooms. But soon they died away, and the shrubs lining the path grew increasingly unruly. In the distance, a white chalk path mounted a round green tor. Dante resolved to climb it, or at least draw it—one of these days. Right now, he simply wanted to walk and observe.

In time the terrain turned hilly and toilsome. A quilt of fields and hedgerows spilled away from the track on either side. Here, the air was chilly and fresh with the scent of hawthorn buds and loam, a blessing to breathe.

Consulting Mrs. Randall’s map, he took care to bear left at the fork and soon found himself looking at a tiny medieval stone church. He made a few quick sketches, attracting the attention of a pair of women – young and old – who returned his bow. They asked for a glimpse of his sketchbook, and he told them he was on his way to the Durdle Door. A flurry of suggestions followed.

_Oh, you must see the Stair Hole arch as well!_

_And the ancient stone tree-stumps._

_Yes. And you will want to make the journey to Lyme Regis to walk the Cobb, though you will have to stay overnight at an inn—_

_And you must go see the Giant at Cerne Abbas!_ This from the younger, whose companion immediately silenced her with a pinch, hissing, _Lottie, not in the churchyard!_

As they bustled away – the red-faced Lottie throwing him an apologetic look – Dante made a note in his book:

> _ Giant Cerne Ab. ask Mrs. Rndll _

Now the road turned, and here was the signpost and a chalky footpath that cut through the scruffy grass like a white scar. From this point, the ground gave up all pretense of remaining level. Climbing the first hillock, Dante felt like Heathcliff at last. (Thank goodness Mamma had insisted he wear sturdy boots!)

The path wound around and ever downward toward the headland. Beachgrass gave way to craggy black rock; a solitary herring gull wheeled overhead. Then – coming over a crest – Dante saw it. The sea, vast and silvery, and the sun no longer a small, bright golden disk but a white fire that filled the whole of the sky.

He stood facing the promontory— to his right a fearsomely steep footpath to a crescent-moon beach, and beyond that a vista of blinding white chalk cliffs. Now he no longer felt like Heathcliff, but like the Fool of a tarot deck, stepping out into the unknown.

_I’m a child in the wide world,_ he told himself. And toward the wide world he walked.

In his memoirs, the great playwright John O’Keefe called the Durdle Door arch “magnificent”. _Here I stood and contemplated with astonishment and pleasure this stupendous piece of Nature’s work_ , he wrote— and rightly. Through this mystic portal one might step and find oneself in another realm. Tucking his coat beneath him, Dante sat on the beach, opened his sketchbook, and drew the whole of it, magic and all. 

Twice.

When his empty stomach would be ignored no longer, he took out Mrs. Randall’s bundle and pried open the knot. It contained bread, cheese, and a small winter-stored apple, its skin wrinkled but its flesh intensely sweet. He devoured the lot with tremendous pleasure, openly licking his fingers. In equal want of nourishment, his skin eagerly soaked up the sun’s heat and light. Pulling off his necktie, he wandered slowly down the strand, trusting his thoughts to follow.

All winter long, nothing had seemed in his favor. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t smile. Nothing moved him and nothing inspired him. His teachers called him ‘undisciplined’; his friends called him a ‘spoilsport’. To his parents – his own dear Mamma and Papà! – he was _il bambino viziato_ , ‘the spoiled baby’. _HE,_ Dante Gabriel Charles Rossetti, author of _The Blessed Damozel!_ (Well… the first draft, anyway. But surely more would come…) 

Once his Mecca, the Royal Academy now bored him to tears. Why must an artist with something new to say be forced to say it in someone else’s visual language? And why must one draw fruit-basket after fruit-basket before being allowed to draw _people?_ As much as being told what to do, Dante hated being told what NOT to do. Surely this conflict was the source of his malady. 

And his friends Hunt and Millais felt similarly; they _understood!_ Their meeting at Millais’ parents’ house back in September had seemed so momentous—and then nothing. A notion, left floating in midair…

He stood watching the waves lap the sand for a full ten minutes before he spotted it, out near the base of the arch, where the water deepened.

At first it resembled a clump of witch’s hair seaweed, a halo of golden strands spread out upon the water’s surface. But then the halo rose and with a sharp flick was thrown back, revealing a ghostly-pale face.

Dante’s sketchbook tumbled from numb fingers onto the sand.

The face sank down so that only the eyes, crafty and ancient, showed above the waterline. They fixed themselves upon the figure on the beach, learning its shape, weighing its significance. Then with a _plip!_ the face disappeared, leaving a silver ripple to mark where it had been.

It did not reappear.

Suddenly uneasy, Dante snatched up his sketchbook and hurried back up to the footpath, leaving his yellow necktie to flutter aimlessly along the strand.

The rising sea breeze had collected together some clouds and flung them at the shore; warm sunshine now alternated with chill shade. Dante was not conversant in weather-sign, but he felt something coming. A squall. An ill wind. 

A face in the water. 

Could it have been a local lad, out to pull a prank on a tourist? That was the most logical explanation. Or perhaps it was a seal! Mamma had shown him an illustration from Cuvier’s _Animal Kingdom_ , saying that he might see two kinds in Dorset—one large and soot-grey, the other smaller, paler. What he’d seen was the latter, surely… but what did it matter? The truly important thing was the loss of his necktie, now no doubt miles out to sea. He’d never find another one of such perfect daffodil hue…

(All of these thoughts served to make the minutes fly by quicker. Yet as he told himself these tales, Dante knew deep down that seals do not have sharp blue eyes or bow-shaped lips, and when they sink, they must sometime come back up for air…)

He walked fast along the high ridge road leading eastward back to town. Mrs. Randall’s map (now smudged here and there with traces of apple nectar and graphite) showed a small bite taken out of the coastline just west of Lulworth Cove and not five minutes’ walk from the cottage. _Stair Hole,_ read the label. It would be Dante’s last stop before home, dinner, ten pages of _Evangeline_ and a restful night’s sleep...

But as he mounted the last hillock over Stair Hole, he saw a pale figure far below, sitting astraddle the ridge of the rock arch as if it were riding a sea-dragon. From one of its hands fluttered a length of daffodil-yellow silk.

_Excuse me!_ Dante called down. _Excuse me— that’s mine!_

The… to be honest, Dante wasn’t sure what to call it. Person, creature, mirage? The _whatever-it-was_ twisted at the waist to look up at him. In that instant, he could have sworn he saw a smirk curl its lips. Then it launched itself up and disappeared over the far side of the rock bridge.

There came an answering splash from the water below.

_Oi!_ Dante shouted. _Come back here, I say!_

Heart thudding, he looked about him wildly for a path that would take him closer, but saw none that would not lead to a rockslide. For a moment, he contemplated chancing it – it was, after all, his _very best_ necktie! – but then the fight ebbed from him. 

With a scowl, he gave his coat lapels a sharp tug and walked on.

_Did you find the day pleasant, Mr. Rossetti?_

_I did._ Dante jumped up to aid Mrs. Randall, who struggled through the door with an enormous, heavy basket on her arm. _I do have several questions though, if you’d indulge me._

Certainly.

_What is the Giant at Cerne Abbas?_

It was a good thing he had taken the basket from her, because her hands flew to her cheeks, then pressed against her linen tucker, crying, _My word!_

_I’m sorry, did I misspeak? It’s only that someone suggested I go see it during my stay._

_Oh, heavens, was it Mr. Dibben? Elderly man with a walking stick and a wart on his chin? He does love to shock visitors—_

_No, a young lady named Lottie. I met her while sketching the church._

Red-faced Mrs. Randall pulled out a chair from the table and sank down into it. _Oh, Lord, what you must think of us!_

_I don’t understand. Why should I think ill of you? What should I be shocked by?_

Mrs. Randall raised her eyes. _All right, Mr. Rossetti. The long and the short of it_ – here she turned red again and coughed – _is that some hundreds of years ago, the people of these parts scoured the grass off the chalk ground in a pattern—_

_Like the White Horse at Uffington?_ Dante could not help but lift one corner of the linen cloth draped over the basket. Whatever his hostess had cooked for him, it smelled enticing.

_Yes, but not as ancient, and in the form of a man with… oh…._ Noting Dante’s quizzical look, she sighed. _I believe the vicar at Holy Trinity may be able to oblige your desire for information._

_I think I see._

_Well, if you do, don’t tell me._ Rising, Mrs. Randall began to unpack the basket. _I’ve roasted you a chicken. Not very adventurous, but I find it best for a first-night meal. There will be plenty of time to tempt your palate with our local foods in the coming month._ She squinted at him. _Forgive me, but were you not wearing a yellow necktie this morning?_

_Yes. Sadly, I lost it to a sea breeze. I’m going back tomorrow to see if I might find it. Mrs. Randall!_ Dante fiddled with his middle waistcoat button. _Do… do you know of anyone here who swims a good deal in the ocean? A very pale sort of person with blond hair?_

_Any number of my neighbors meet that description. Why?_

_I saw such a person in the water at the Door. They dove down and did not come back up. And then I saw them again at the Stair Hole, only…_ Noticing an odd expression cross his landlady’s face, he trailed off.

Mrs. Randall appraised Dante for a silent moment. She finished arranging the dishes and went to fetch a bottle of port from the sideboard. It was while her back was turned that she spoke.

_In my grandfather’s day,_ she said, _a mermaid washed up on Cogden Beach, west of Chesil. A hideous sight, ‘twas said. From the top of its head to the tip of its tail, it was almost as long as our chimney is high, and it had exactly forty-eight teeth._

_How do you know?_

_They counted them. It was dead, of course; otherwise I’m sure it would have bitten off someone’s finger._ She snorted. _Or arm._

_And now? Have any other mermaids shown themselves off the coast?_

Mrs. Randall smiled—but the smile did not extend to her eyes. 

_Oh, I wouldn’t give it too much thought,_ she told him brightly. _The local lads enjoy playing pranks on newcomers almost as much as they enjoy taking their daily dip. At any rate, you and I are not sailors. We are, as_ they _would call us, “landlubbers”._ Her shrewd gaze did not leave his face. _We have no call to believe in mermaids._

That night after his evening meal, Dante sat hearth-gazing, too comfortable to bother with either of the books in his satchel or any that sat on his hostess’ shelf. It had begun to rain, which added to the general sense of coziness that ruled the cottage, as watertight as a well-built ship.

All was well until he retired to bed. Then the _plick-plick-plick_ of raindrops followed him into sleep, making him dream of the… _whatever-it-was,_ waiting for him on the cottage doorstep, dripping wet…

He woke in dark, heart stuttering in his chest. So strong was his dread that he went downstairs in the dark to peer out the windows at the garden path, fully expecting to see… _what?_

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ he told himself as he climbed the stairs once more. But he took note of which of them creaked when he stepped on them, and then he lay tense for an hour, listening hard for stealthy footsteps.

How strange that food tastes best on holiday, even though it is no different from what one eats at home! With apologies to his parents’ cook, no breakfast in Dante’s memory thus far tasted as rich and fine as the one Mrs. Randall laid before him now. She took obvious pleasure in his hearty appetite, just as Mamma did at home.

Today she handed him not only his lunch, but a cloth bag rather like a sower’s sack, with a long shoulder-strap made to wear across the body. It was quite large enough to fit his sketchbook and sundry drawing implements, thus liberating his hands. Now he’d be able to swing his arms freely as he walked!

_And there is room left over for your necktie,_ Mrs. Randall declared, _should you wrest it back from the deep._

Taking the same route as the day before, Dante spent at least an hour at the church, trying to immortalize its ancient essence in pencil on paper. He loved all things medieval; if it were only possible to fly backward in time… The vicar, a Reverend Fisher, patiently answered all his queries but laughed heartily when the subject of the Cerne Abbas Giant arose. Without even a trace of embarrassment, he explained the old midsummer fertility rites that took place on the Giant – to be precise, a very particular _feature_ of the Giant – then clapped the blushing young man on the back.

_You are an artist, are you not?_ he chuckled. _I needn’t tell you about anatomy._

Men who walk the plank and grooms who walk the aisle know what Dante Gabriel Rossetti felt as he neared his destination. With every step, he felt more certain of what he would find at the Durdle Door—but no more certain how it might change him.

As he picked his way down the ridge to the strand, he thought of the Cogdon Beach mermaid and its forty-eight teeth, of spiteful local youths out for fun, of the fickle nature of yellow neckties, of home and Mamma and Papa and Christina, of the brotherhood he and his friends discussed and might yet achieve in time. Through all this, as if through a sheer veil, he saw a pale figure with golden hair and ancient eyes, waiting for him.

But that was only in his mind. He was alone.

He chose a boulder in the sun, high on the stony beach near the massive, crumpled limestone cliff, and he waited. For what, he did not know. Fate – cold, pure, and uncanny – would determine the answer. And should his fair shadow show its face, Dante would not follow it. If it wanted a word, it would have to come to him.

He passed the time folding and refolding Mrs. Randall’s map, turning over large pebbles with his boot toe, weaving the linen strap of the sower’s bag in and out of his fingers. Every so often he glanced at the horizon, but he mostly kept his gaze to himself, determined to pretend he did not care until the last minute.

A very slight scraping sound of rock on rock sounded nearby. He glanced up.

Like a cat caught in the act, or a chameleon trying vainly to disappear into the background, the creature froze in place, pressed close against the rock wall.

If his own presence had a paralyzing effect, Dante found himself equally afflicted. But his artistic training had disciplined him to notice, and these three things are what he noticed:

_It_ was a _He._

_He_ had not a stitch of clothing on.

_He_ was beautiful.

Dante did not know what to think. He was not used to finding other men beautiful. Like a knight of old, he reserved all his yearnings for a nameless, faceless queen, an ideal woman drawn more from poetry and myth than real life. He was auditioning for a dream. What came to him instead? 

A boy like himself.

But not _entirely_ like himself. 

What one might interpret from afar as merely pale skin was actually the white and blue of snowdrift shadow, or skin too long submerged in frigid water. The young man’s lips and fingers had a cyanotic tinge; his eyes were fish-scale silver rimmed with bruise purple. There could be no plainer proof that this beautiful stranger was not, _could not be,_ entirely human.

The sight shocked and distressed Dante greatly; he could not keep from exclaiming, _Ahh—!_

The siren (for he was exactly that, a creature of the deep) recoiled. Dante’s reaction seemed to extinguish his courage to remain on land. He whirled and made to flee back across the stones to the water.

_Please!_ Dante flung out his hand. _Please. Don’t go._

The siren halted, hesitated, turning his golden head slightly to listen.

_I only want to talk to you if I may._ Dante leaned forward. _You seemed to have been looking for me yesterday. You can’t have sought me out for nothing._

In that moment, a fortuitous thing happened: the sun emerged from behind a cloud. The siren stood in gloom; Dante occupied the light. A choice had to be made.

The siren stepped into the sunlight with a telling sigh of pleasure. All in a rush, the blue tinge drained away, replaced by a flush of pink and gold and something more.

_Soul_.

Shy and wary, the siren took one step forward, arms held out as if to say, _Do you like this better?_

_Oh,_ affirmed Dante in a rapturous breath.

The object of his admiration was small in stature, his eyes (no longer cold silver, but aquamarine) more or less level with Dante’s mouth. A near-perfect symmetry ruled his form from head to toe— his fine features, the cleft in his chin, the breadth of his shoulders, the ease and balance of his stance. His hair, lit copper-gold by the sun, looked thick, soft, enticing; Dante longed to slowly rake his fingers through it. He could not keep himself from sneaking peeks at the siren’s rose-pink, delicately scrolled lips. 

_How do they feel?_ he wondered. _Like mine?_

_I am sorry I frightened you yesterday,_ he whispered. _I didn’t mean to shout at you._

The siren did not move a muscle, but his eyelashes flickered slightly.

_I did not expect you, but perhaps you didn’t expect me, either. I am a stranger here. A newcomer._

A slight nod.

_May I stand? May I come closer to you?_

Truth be told, Dante feared his companion might take it into his head to flee at any moment, back to the safety of the sea. He wished to look his fill, to commit this encounter to memory—and he did not care to do so from a distance.

The siren’s head dipped down; he regarded Dante through a sheaf of wheat-colored curls. Then he made a regal gesture with his hand, beckoning his admirer to come forward, which Dante did most eagerly.

_I have never met anyone like you,_ he confessed.

The siren sucked his lower lip in like a coquette.

_You are not as others have described you,_ Dante continued. _I mean… they speak of long tails, and teeth that bite._

Finally a smile curled those rosy lips, widening until it broke forth like a sunray, revealing white, even, and (most importantly) non-pointed teeth. _I do not bite,_ that smile said. 

Encouraged, Dante pressed on. _I came here to talk to you because you have something of mine._

Wide, blameless eyes. Sirens, after all, are known as much for deception as seduction.

_You found my necktie— a sort of scarf made of yellow cloth._ Dante tilted his head pleadingly. _It belongs to me, and I like it very much. Will you give it back?_

A small shake of the head, meaning: _No. I like it very much, too._

_But it’s mine,_ Dante protested.

A bat of eyelashes, another slow smile: _Not anymore._

It was a game, but one that might quickly turn into a frustrating impasse. As much as it wrenched him to do it so soon after the beginning of their acquaintance, Dante knew how to break it. 

_Fine,_ he snarled. _Keep it._ And he turned heel and strode away, as much as one _can_ stride on loose and shifting sand.

Almost instantly his arm was caught in a remarkably strong grip, and he was whirled back around.

The siren was so close, their bodies nearly brushed. His head was tilted back, exposing his throat; his eyes sparkled like gems, their blue flecked with particles of green and amber that absorbed and mesmerized their prey. 

_You…_ Dante felt staked to the spot and quite unable to break free. _You…_

Inquisitive fingers parted his collar and delved down, strangely certain of their target. By what sorcery did they know what lay there, a hand’s width below his collarbone? 

_That?_ Dante chuckled. _An old scar. There’s a story there, if you’d care to hear it._

Rubbing his thumb over the ridge of healed flesh, the siren held Dante’s gaze.

_I was… oh, eight years of age. My parents had taken my siblings and me to see our Nonno—our grandfather, Mamma’s father. Owing to his being a great scholar, we all of us felt a desire to show him how clever we were. We’d memorized_ Othello— _yes, even so young! – and we acted out the final death scene for him in the parlor. I cannot think why…_

Dante’s laugh, loud at first, died away as he felt the siren’s warm, salt-roughened palm press the skin over his heart. 

_I cannot think why Nonno had a workman’s chisel in his study, nor what made me snatch it up,_ he continued. _Only it was time for Othello to die by his own dagger._

Sharp blue eyes drilled into his—and then the siren moved.

Scar tissue is said to have no feeling, but when the creature drew aside his shirt and opened his soft wet mouth over the old mark, Dante knew it was not so. 

The siren’s lips were exactly as soft as he had imagined, but they awakened a surprising pain deep in his flesh, like a burn from a candleflame. One plays at holding one’s finger in the fire, letting it lick and taste, but for a long time afterward it aches and stings: a rebuke for recklessness.

But at least Dante finally got what he wanted: a coveted handful of golden hair. He gathered it up, working his fingers into it right from the nape, and won a soft, inarticulate moan from the siren, who impulsively wound both arms around Dante’s waist and turned his face up like a flower.

He tasted of the salty depths, of mysteries glimmering in the dark far below. His kiss was a breaking wave; it swept Dante up as if he were tiny, weightless, helpless. He would compare every kiss thereafter to this one and find them all maddeningly inferior.

He drew back, stroked the siren’s lips with his thumb, teased him into lightly nipping it, dove back in.

The sun wheeled slowly over their heads.

Dante could not exactly say whence came the alarm that eventually flooded him. Perhaps it was the subtle cooling of the air as land-breeze changed to sea-breeze. (How long had they been standing there, absorbed in their kiss?) Perhaps it was the arousal which the siren had stoked in him, unprecedented and intense. (Had he ever reached that height on his own, taking himself in hand alone in his bed at night?) 

The siren felt the same keen, unrequited pleasure. That much was frankly, _visibly_ obvious when Dante tore himself away. Suddenly deprived of their prize, the siren’s arms reached out, imploring to be filled again— but fearful Dante stumbled backwards out of their reach.

_I have to go home,_ he panted. _I have to go._

There was still time for escape, for redemption. Not far away from this enchanted place lay the town and Spring Cottage, where he would be safe. Yes, _safe_. It would all start at the cottage, he now saw. He’d lock the door and stay inside and learn all its wall-cracks and corners by heart. If he stepped over its threshold, he’d stick to the map and stay among crowds and never go anywhere alone. And then he would return to London – perhaps early – and put his nose to the grindstone. He’d obey his parents, faithfully follow his drawing instructors, forswear impatience and discontent. He’d do everything exactly as others before him had.

And he would avoid the sea forevermore. That somehow seemed important.

But then a low cry stopped him. 

A siren’s song turns men’s minds in one direction: towards the singer, forever. As if that were not enough, this particular siren sharpened his voice on the blade-edge of love and lust—the real thing, not just a ploy to lure the living into the treacherous sea. He desired Dante, thought him as beautiful as he himself was regarded. The woe awakened by the idea of never seeing him again proved that sirens possess hearts, and those hearts break as easily as humans’ do.

So when Dante turned, his own heart quailed at the sight that met his eye. No longer so proud and bold, the sea-sprite wavered on his feet, pressing one hand flat on his ribs as if to silence an overwhelming pain. His eyes, now desolate, shone with tears. Let no one say the enchanted folk feel nothing.

Mortal faced immortal; man faced myth. The terror and distrust that normally divided their kinds threatened to plant itself between them and estrange them forever. Something in each of them wavered on the edge of shattering.

Dante could not bear it. It was forbidden; all the fairy tales advised against it, because it always ended the same. He knew he shouldn’t, but he must, he must.

_My name is Dante Gabriel Rossetti,_ he said, knowing that he couldn’t take it back.

The siren’s face relaxed, became serene. _Dante Gabriel Rossetti,_ he mouthed, learning his new song. _Dante Gabriel Rossetti._

_Come and find me again_ , Dante invited, surer now. They had a month. A month to discover if the risk taken was valueless, or worth all the sea’s stolen treasure…. 

_Find me,_ he repeated. _Or let me find you._

And the siren did, again and again, many a time over that month.

Despite his future reputation as a hedonist, Dante Gabriel Rossetti would never fully embrace the nude in art. His women, goddesses and heroines all, remain veiled behind rich draperies that conceal their forms. Is it significant, then, that the closest he came to a classical nude was a study of a siren? Or that his _Ligeia_ resembles a boy upon whom breasts appear as an afterthought, a concession to those who might otherwise ask questions? 

Dante never made any other attempt to record what he saw and experienced during that month at the shore. In fact, he spent his lifetime burying it under portrait after portrait of Lizzie, Fanny, Jane, Alexa. But he never forgot it, never. 

And when the end of his time on earth came, he asked to be taken down to the sea.

_Salt air is a tonic,_ he whispered.


End file.
